Saris are the song of India. They hum about the streets, the markets, the parks. They sing brightly, colorfully, and against a backdrop of despair and poverty. They whirl around you like a song you can't get out of head. Addicting. Completely. And so, my sweet-as-can-be Mom and I found ourselves in sari shop after sari shop. Obsessed.

A jewel of a shop found up staircase after staircase in Delhi. Only after we reached what we thought could possibly be the last staircase, was another. And voila... the prize.

Our self-appointed "guide" made sure he found us.Actually, he wouldn't leave us alone. But we went along. A story for everything, an answer for each question, a business or friend for each of our requests. He was a jack-of-all-trades and a source of giggles and one or two eye-rolls along the way. It wasn't until our last day with him, after money had been exchanged, that he told us his story. And we believed him. He was too poor to keep his infant daughter alive. He couldn't afford the treatment. Good golly, heart broken. Officially.

just linked over to this story Wow, Your guides story so sad yet , he moves forward,and provides help and love to others,

Tha must have been quite a feeling going up all those stairs and not know what you would find to get to then all those beautiful saris, I love them too so amazing the designs and colors so happy and filled with life,